Linda Lael Miller - The McKettrick Legend: Sierras Homecoming; The McKettrick Way

Present Day

S TAY IN THE CAR, Sierra McKettrick told her seven-year-old son, Liam.

He fixed her with an owlish gaze, peering through the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses. I want to see the graves, too, he told her, and put a mittened hand to the passenger-side door handle to make his point.

Another time, she answered firmly. Part of her knew it was irrational to think a visit to the cemetery could provoke an asthma attack, but when it came to Liams health, she was taking no chances.

A brief stare-down ensued, and Sierra prevailed, but barely.

Its not fair, Liam said, yet he sounded resigned. He didnt normally give up so easily, but theyd just driven almost nonstop all the way from Florida to northern Arizona, and he was tired.

Welcome to the real world, Sierra replied. She set the emergency brake, left the engine running with the heat on High, and got out of the ancient station wagon shed bought on credit years before.

Standing ankle-deep in a patch of ragged snow, she took in her surroundings. Ordinary people were buried in church yards and public cemeteries when they died, she reflected, feeling peevish. The McKettricks were a law unto them selves, living or dead. They werent content with a mere plot, like other families. Oh, no. They had to have a place all their own, with a view.

And what a view it was.

Shoving her hands into the pockets of her cloth coat, which was nearly as decrepit as her car, Sierra turned to survey the Triple M Ranch, sprawling in every direction, well beyond the range of her vision. Red mesas and buttes, draped in a fine lacing of snow. Copses of majestic white oaks, growing at intervals along a wide and shining stream. Expanses of pastureland, and even the occasional cactus, a stranger to the high country, a misplaced way farer, there by mistake.

Like her.

A flash of resentment rose suddenly within Sierra, and a moment or two passed before she recognized the emotion for what it was: not her own opinion, but that of her late father, Hank Breslin.

When it came to the McKettricks, Sierra had no opinions that she could honestly claim, because she didnt know these people, except by reputation.

Shed taken their name for one reason and one reason onlybecause that was part of the deal. Liam needed health care, and she couldnt provide it. Eve McKettrickSierras biological motherhad set up a medical trust fund for her grandson, but there were strings attached.

With the McKettricks, she heard her father say, as surely as if he were standing there beside her, there are always strings attached.

Be quiet, Sierra said, out loud. She was grateful for Eves help, and if she had to take the McKettrick name and live on the Triple M Ranch for a year to meet the conditions, so be it. It wasnt as if she had anyplace better to go.

Resolutely she approached the cemetery entrance, walked under the ornate metal arch way forming the word McKettrick in graceful cursive.

A life-size bronze statue of a man on horse back, broad-shouldered and imposing, with a bandanna at his throat and a six-gun riding on his hip, took center stage.

Angus McKettrick, the patriarch. The founder of the Triple M, and the dynasty. Sierra knew little about him, but as she looked up into that hard, determined face, shaped by the rigors of life in the nineteenth century, she felt a kinship.

Ruthless old bastard, said the voice of Hank Breslin. Thats where McKettricks get their arrogance. From him.

Be quiet, Sierra repeated, thrusting her hands deeper into her coat pockets. She stood in silence for a long moment, listening to the rattle-throated hum of the station wagons engine, the lonely cry of a nearby bird, the thrum of blood in her ears. A piney scent spiced the air.

Sierra turned, saw the marble angels marking the graves of Angus McKettricks wivesGeorgia, mother of Rafe, Kade and Jeb. Concepcion, mother of Kate.

Look for Holt and Lorelei, Eve had told her, the last time theyd spoken over the telephone. Thats our part of the family.

Sierra caught sight of other bronze statues, smaller than Anguss but no less impressive in their detail. They were works of art, museum pieces, and if they hadnt been solidly anchored in cement, they probably would have been stolen. It said something about the McKettrick legend, she supposed, that there had been no vandalism in this lonely, wind-blown place.

Jeb McKettrick, the youngest of the brothers, was represented by a cowboy with his six-gun drawn; his wife, Chloe, by a slender woman in pioneer dress, shading her eyes with one hand and smiling. Their children, grandchildren, great- and a few great-great-grandchildren surrounded them, their costly headstones laid out in neat rows, like the streets of a western town.

Next was Kade McKettrick, easy in his skin, wearing a six-shooter, like his brother, but with an open book in his hand. His wife, Mandy, wore trousers, a loose-fitting shirt, boots and a hat, and held a shotgun. Like Chloe, she was smiling. Judging by the number of other graves around theirs, these two had also been prolific parents.

The statue of Rafe McKettrick revealed a big, powerfully built man with a stubborn set to his jaw. His bride, Emmeline, stood close against his side; their arms were linked and she rested her head against the outside of his upper arm.